


A Study In Coincidence

by Taz



Category: Highlander: The Series, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz





	A Study In Coincidence

Expressing the inexpressible, Duncan let a sigh that was far louder than he’d intended. It attracted the attention of the man standing at the bar beside him, who, until that moment, had been giving him a covert eye. Now he was frankly staring.

Duncan could have said something to address the rudeness—the man was clearly pixilated—but, after taking in the ill-fitting suit, the face that was too thin and pale beneath a nut-brown tan, and the trim military mustache, he didn't have the heart to deliver a harsh rebuff. He had read in the paper when_T__he_ _Orontes _had discharged the first troops from Afghanistan at the Portsmouth jetty last month and knew that they had included eighteen invalids.

“Let me buy you another, Lieutenant,” he said, instead, taking a guess at the rank.

“Doctor. Assistant Surgeon,” the man said.

Seeming to become aware that he was being discourteous, he looked down, displaying a bashfulness that was unexpectedly charming. “No. No, thank you. I’m fine.” The glass in front of him was empty. Convalescent half-pay was eleven shillings and sixpence a day.

Ignoring the refusal, Duncan caught the barman’s eye, and signaled him to top off both of their glasses.

“MacLeod.” He introduced himself. It wasn’t that he wanted a new friend, but the men who had undertaken the retreat to Kandahar had marched, and fought, without food or water for twenty-four hours, in a season when it was commonly 105 in the shade. “You were at Maiwand?" he said. _Where the Berkshires, outflanked by Ayub Khan, had been hopelessly beaten. _

“Maiwand. You're a Scot. I knew a Scot. Murray...loyal, ol’ Murray. Threw me over a packhorse... Save m' life...” The man's voice slurred, as he bent his head and pressed his palm to his eyes, covering up the gesture by reaching for the glass the barman set before him.

As he sipped the foamy head from his ale, Duncan glanced across his back, searching the gas-lit length of the room. He had come back recently to England, himself. Old habits die hard, and the Criterion occupied the site of the White Bear Coaching Inn, a place where he’d nursed many a hangover. The smoky half-timbered buiding was gone. On the ceiling, mosaic tiles glittered gold and turquoise, and green and purple. But hard by the Haymarket and Piccadilly, it still attracted the racing crowd and, right now, it was packed with noisy after-theater goers, as well. The crush had forced him up against the long bar when he’d felt the tell-tale tingle of another immortal presence. He considered the reflections in the tall mirrors that filled each bay. _Where…?_  Which white face in that sea of pungent blue cigar smoke.

“…Irretrie-irretrievably ruined,” his companion was saying. "Have the permission of a paternal government... Shouldn’ it be permission of a maternal government? Doesn’ sound _pukka _I s‘pose. Anyway...'m free to spend the next nine months attempting to improve it. You army?”

“No,” Duncan lied, catching the barman’s eye and tipping his head again toward the doctor’s glass.

He'd spotted the other immortal. The man was sitting two bays down at a table against the wall. It was no one Duncan recognized. Surprisingly mature. Sparse gray lay over a high domed forehead. Puckered, blinking eyes sunk deep into a white face. His head oscillated from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion, while his hands rested on the heavy gold head of a thick ebony cane. Almost no one one in this bright scientific century bore arms, but Duncan did not doubt that cane concealed a useful blade.

They considered each other warily. Finally, as if satisfied, the man nodded and leaned back. Duncan relaxed, as well, only to realize what his companion was saying.

"Good to find a friend in this great wilderness of London. 'M stayin’ at Scott’s Private, 13 Cecil Street. ’S a comfortable place for a single man.” There was so much need and hope in his words.

Duncan was conflicted. He had no pressing engagements but, just then, another man pushed through the crowd and tapped the doctor on the shoulder.

“Watson!” the newcomer cried. “John Watson, is that you?”

“Stamford! MacLeod! It’s Stamford. Young Stamford, don't cha know... Was a dresser under me at Barts!”

 

_Finished_  
06/04/05

_Revised_  
04/07/13

 


End file.
